


i just cant help myself

by ell (amywaited)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cute, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Violence, but like, murder fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26894842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amywaited/pseuds/ell
Summary: Hannibal says, “are you afraid?” He sounds like he couldn’t care what the answer is.”No.”“Good,” Hannibal says. He returns to the toast, not looking at Will.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	i just cant help myself

**Author's Note:**

> title (&chapter title) from [sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FKZtt6C174) by royal blood.

Will wakes up, unsure if he ever fell asleep. 

Hannibal is watching, sitting in a chair parallel to the bed. His eyes are silent and cold; like he’s trying to drown Will by merely looking at him.

He sits up. The blinds are drawn and shadows congregate on his bedroom floor. The beginnings of a golden sunrise spill onto the window sill, pouring misty light into the dust. “Why are you here?” Will finds himself asking, his voice dry and low.

Hannibal’s reply is neutral, but his tone betrays him. On someone else, it would be imperceptible, but Will reads Hannibal like an open book. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” he says, and for all the truth it holds, Will knows what he’s truly saying.  _ I don’t trust you to be alone.  _

A perversion deep inside him is tickled pink at the implication. A misplaced honour at the fear he must now strike into hearts. Will says, “you didn’t need to,” and Hannibal just looks.

He says, ‘of course I did,’ without words. When Hannibal does speak, he says, “it was a pleasure.”  _ You’re mine, and you’re beautiful. _

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Doesn’t know how to think. Everything he could say feels cheap and sour in his mouth. “Have you made breakfast?” 

“Your refrigerator holds little more than mould,” Hannibal says, but he moves his head into a nod. “There is toast and butter.”

Will feels a laugh stuck in his oesophagus. He acknowledges it and pushes it down towards his stomach. “Is that all?”

“You are not in a position to complain.”

“Then thank you,” Will says, and he forces himself up and out of his bed. He can see the kitchen table through the door, and sitting atop it is a plate of bread and mugs. Deliciously simple, disgustingly casual. He knows there will be something strange about watching Hannibal eat toast at his table; it’s like no one was ever supposed to see him like this. It’s almost perverse. Will relishes in it.

When he gets up to fill his mug with coffee, Hannibal lingers in the doorway on the edge of a goodbye. Will can see it melting on his tongue, dripping over his lips. He wants to lick it up.

“You could stay,” is enough to make Hannibal sit back down. When Will sits opposite him, it means more. Will knows that Hannibal reads it for what it isn’t, not merely what it is.

There are moments of long silence. It’s not awkward, or pained, but their presence is obvious. Their persistence is admirable. Hannibal says, “You know I stayed for you.”

“I know.”

“No,” Hannibal says. He puts his coffee cup down and folds his hands atop the table. “I stayed  _ for  _ you. Not because of you.”

The distinction is small. Still, it forces Will’s heart to beat in another direction. He blinks. He says, “you’re the Chesapeake Ripper,.” It’s not a question, not at all, but Hannibal doesn’t reply. He just looks and looks and looks. It’s all the answer Will needs.

Hannibal says, “are you afraid?” He sounds like he couldn’t care what the answer is.

”No.”

“Good,” Hannibal says. He returns to the toast, not looking at Will.

Will lets silence hang in the air for a minute longer than he wants to before he asks, “what did you do with the body parts you took?”

Now, when Hannibal looks at him, Will feels an uncomfortable warmth stir in his stomach, and he embraces it.

“Did you feed them to me?” he asks. Hannibal nods. “And Jack?” 

“Everyone,” Hannibal says, “my dinner parties.”

“They always coincided with a Ripper spree,” Will says. Then he laughs. “I can’t believe you got away with it.”

“No one suspects a good cut of meat,” Hannibal says. He smiles too, just the very edge of one. “And then they ate all the evidence.”

“Did you kill any for me?” Will says. He’s not sure he wants this answer. 

“They were all for you,” Hannibal says, “I was waiting for you to notice.”

“I knew as soon as I was put in BSHCI. Before that, even,” Will says, “I knew you were involved with my case, but you didn’t leave evidence. You were careful. Staged the crimes to make them look like mine.”

Hannibal smiles properly now. “I knew you figured it out. Few people could appreciate my art like you.”

“I wish I could have been there.”

“For the kills?”

“I want to see you in action,” Will says, “not just your picture-perfect staging. Who are you going to next?”

The way Hannibal looks at him burns. His skin melts off his bones. When Hannibal places down a business card with a name and phone number on, Will feels the embers of adrenaline set his stomach alight. “Tell me how you would kill him,” Hannibal asks. This is undoubtedly a test.

“How much are you trying to punish him?” Will asks. It feels important, feels like something Hannibal would think. He’s an artist and a hunter, not a mindless murderer. There's a method to his madness, Will knows, and he would do all he could to honour it.

The look Hannibal gives him is delightful. “He’s a reporter. He did a piece on the Ripper, and tore all my hard work to shreds. I want to teach him a lesson, but not leave a mess behind.”

“Suffocation, then,” Will answers immediately. “I could draw it out as long as I needed.”

“Good. And when he’s dead?” Hannibal says. He leans closer, clasping his hands together across the table. Will finds himself moving in as well, orbiting around Hannibal. 

“I would drain the body of blood,” Will says, “and then carve it. I would make  _ you _ dinner.”

“You don’t cook.”

“I’d learn.”

Hannibal doesn’t smile, but his expression softens just slightly. “What would you make me?”

This is the real test, Will knows. Anyone could kill a man, but Hannibal has such high standards for him. Will must get his answers right, prove himself to Hannibal. He swallows. Inhales. Feels almost embarrassed and ducks his head. “A pie. Probably. We could share it.”

Hannibal seems willing to overlook whatever there is lacking in Will’s culinary knowledge. “That sounds wonderful, Will, but perhaps for another day. You should play the voyeur first. I shall put on my show for you, to begin with.”

“When?” Will asks. He knows how desperate he sounds, how stupidly desperate he is for this. Hannibal can probably smell it on him, smell his desire and fear and appreciation burning in his stomach. 

Hannibal looks at him the way one might look at a small child, willing to play along but still hold all of the cards. Indulging Will, but keeping him on a tight leash. “Thursday evening,” he decides. “I’ll collect you after work. We’ll spend the evening together, and I’ll prepare the guest room for you.”

Will bites the corner of his lip. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“And yet you’d insert yourself into my hobbies without a care,” Hannibal says, almost accusatory, as he moves to meet Will’s eyes.

“You can include me or dispose of me,” Will says. He knows that he’s put Hannibal in a vulnerable position, and a part of him loves the power he now wields. Hannibal wouldn’t be able to kill Will, that much he’s sure of. 

Hannibal knows he knows it, too, if the look he gives is anything to go by. “Don’t push your luck, Will,” he says. It’s as much of a warning as it is a tease, almost begging for Will to push him too far.

Will crosses his ankles beneath the table. He doesn’t take the bait this time. The morning is still early. He takes another bite of the toast Hannibal had prepared. It’s cold and limp, and there’s a shallow hole in the left corner where Hannibal must have scraped some mould off. 

Somehow, it’s perfect.

* * *

The next morning, at the office, Beverly drags him into the morgue almost immediately. There’s hardly anyone in the building, let alone the room. Their only company is the cadavers set aside for a scientific demonstration later. Will admires them, wondering what they’d all look like with blood dried in the hollow of their throats and bruises ringed around their necks. 

He wonders what Hannibal would like them to look like, whether he’d take their organs and stitch them back up, or if he’d leave them untouched for once. He imagines himself taking the kidneys and the lungs, replacing the heart with a bouquet of flowers. Something with meaning, something for Hannibal to find and understand.

Beverly unlocks one of the cubby doors. “We got this body in last night,” she begins to explain, pulling out the tray, “I wanted you to take a look at it before any of the others, just in case you saw something they didn’t. Jack said he might be going to the actual scene today, so he’ll probably invite you to go with. He usually does.”

Will stares down. Beneath him lies a young man. He would look almost regular, if not for the Y-shaped incision down his front. “Did you already do the autopsy?” he asks, even though he knows the answer already.

“Of course not,” Beverly says. “He was like this when he was found. Someone had cut in before us. We’ll have to see what they did when we perform  _ our _ autopsy.”

Will frowns. The way the body has been stitched back up is professional and accurate, almost textbook perfect. The incision, too, is clean and neat. The flesh isn’t torn, isn’t messy. He reaches out to snag a pair of plastic gloves from the box by the door, pulling them on before running a finger along the tail of the cut. “Someone knew what they were doing when they did this,” he says. “I…”

“You got an idea?” Beverly asks, in his silence. Will shakes his head slowly, unsure if he’s telling her the truth or not. She hums, clearly disappointed but not surprised. “Yeah. I didn’t think so. Hey, why don’t you sit in on the autopsy we perform later? Maybe that’ll jog your mind.”

“Sure,” Will says. If Jack does end up visiting the scene today, he’ll definitely be invited. He’ll have to decide between staying with Beverly or going with Jack. He’s not sure which one he wants more.

Beverly nods to herself and covers the body once more, sliding it back into the cubby. “We’ll see you later, then?” she asks, locking the cubby door and turning to leave.

“Yeah,” Will agrees. He’s almost certain that there’ll be something more within the body, something more than perfect stitching and incisions. The most he’ll find at the scene is a discarded scalpel, and Jack is perfectly capable of cataloguing that. Here, the victim will tell him his story.

* * *

Will sits in his old office for most of the day. He doesn’t have any classes to teach yet - his stint in BSHCI means that most of his old responsibilities have been reassigned. He reads old psychiatric papers and wonders if he can burrow his way further into Hannibal’s head without him noticing. He wants to take him apart from the inside out. He wants Hannibal to let him.

His cell rings and he ignores it. It rings again and then pings with a voicemail from Jack. Will doesn’t listen to it. He waits to see if he’ll text as well, and isn’t surprised when he receives a message not two minutes later.

> Jack Crawford:  _ Hey Will, Beverly said she showed you the recent victim earlier. I’m going to the scene in thirty minutes and it’d be really helpful if you come too. If not, she said you’d sit in on their autopsy. See you soon. _

Will rubs a hand over his eyes, lifting his cell to reply. He doesn’t want to go to the scene today. He doesn’t want to leave his office, really. 

> Will Graham: _ I’ll stay for the autopsy. I think I’ll find out more from that in this case. Let me know if you find anything at the scene. _

He wants to call Hannibal. He wants to know what Hannibal thinks. He wants to go home.

He picks up the stack of psychology reports again. He’s missed a lot since he was incarcerated.

Alana Bloom arrives at his doorway around one, clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee and two plastic-wrapped sandwiches. She knocks with the back of her hand, smiling at him almost guiltily.

“Hey, Will,” she says. If there’s anyone he doesn’t want to talk, it’s her. She lets herself, dispensing her sandwiches on his desk and placing the coffee in front of him. He tries not to feel ill. “How are you doing?”

“I didn’t book an appointment,” Will says. He’s almost too harsh, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

She breathes and gets stuck around where she’s meant to exhale. Her face falls just slightly and she moves to sit in the chair opposite his desk. “Right. Of course. Then… how are you, between friends?”

Will deliberately doesn’t reply. He has no interest in talking to her, and he’s sure she already knows how he’s doing. Their silence is awkward and heavy. 

He watches the muscles in her jaw twitch at his noncompliance. “Okay. Well, listen. I bought you lunch. I didn’t think you’d want to go into the cafeteria today, and I know how forgetful you can be.”

Once upon a time, it would have been playful. He might have laughed. Now, it falls flat. Will wants her to leave. 

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t move to retrieve either the coffee or a sandwich. “I’ll see you around, Dr Bloom.”

Alana nods. She looks woefully out of place. “Yeah. It was nice to see you again, Will.” The smile she offers is small but genuine, which makes Will feel a little guilty. But not enough to take back any of his comments, and his glare follows her out of the door.

He sniffs the coffee. Flat white. He hates those.

**Author's Note:**

> first hannibal fic. theres definitely room for expansion in this universe, but I don't yet know if ill pursue it. let me know what you think!


End file.
